


Moonstruck

by thegrendel



Category: Nofandom, Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Fetish, Incest, Moon, Obsession, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Prison, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 23:04:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: A teenage boy gets mooned by an older woman, and it dominates his life forever after.





	Moonstruck

The passing car took him completely by surprise. He turned to look --  
and caught a flash of something sticking out the window on the passenger  
side. _Bare buttocks._ He had just been mooned. And how!

The image of that naked ass haunted Fred for years. He had been only 12,  
just beginning to become aware of the mysteries of the opposite sex. Girls  
were, well, different. They were annoying, but somehow soft and enticing,  
too. He'd supposed he'd get around to finding their companionship pleasing  
one of these days and maybe even think about dating and all that stuff  
that comes afterwards. But the glimpse of those round, smooth cheeks had  
completely wrecked the orderly progression of his childhood.

He had to find that woman -- the woman whose bare ass it was. He  
_had_ to. He had fixated on her, and especially on her  
ass. _That ass._ It occupied his thoughts day and night. Those lush  
naked curves. That mysterious dark cleavage. The sparse fringe of hair,  
the faint blush of red in the crack, and the puckered little hole. Had  
he really seen those details or was it the product of an overheated  
imagination and wishful thinking? _That ass_ was the last thing  
he saw when he shut his eyes at night and the first thing in his thoughts  
when he awoke.

It was a dark blue '59 Mercury, the car was. That much he was sure of.  
As for the rest, well . . .

At 16, he was in the audience when a hypnotist demonstrated his craft.  
Fred, of course, leaped right up when Dr. Anubis asked for a volunteer.  
After performing various silly stunts and making a complete fool of  
himself, he awoke out of the trance. After the show, Fred asked the good  
doctor for a minor favor. If he could only be induced, under hypnosis,  
to remember the license number of a certain car he had caught an all  
too brief glimpse of a few years back . . .

MUN37--. So, now he had a partial plate number and a fragmentary  
description of the car. What next?

Mr. Herzog was an old friend of the family. A kindly older gentleman  
he was, and Fred got along with him famously. He used to make wooden  
pull-toys in his basement workshop for Fred in bygone years. Fred still  
thought of him as a sort of uncle. Mr. Herzog was a retired cop. He  
could possibly help.

"Well now, Fred, I still have some acquaintances in the Motor Vehicles  
Department, and they just might be willing to get me a list of all cars  
with that particular plate prefix. . . . But what would you do with  
the information?"

Fred blushed at the thought of telling Mr. Herzog the truth, the  
_naked_ truth -- that he was obsessed with a woman whose ass had  
haunted him for years. But there was no alternative. He began talking.

Mr. Herzog laughed. "Of course, I understand. Back when I was your age  
I had an eye for the ladies, too. And when I think back on all the crazy  
things I did for love, or lust, or just out of plain curiosity . . . I do  
have some misgivings, but yes, I'll help. Of course, you won't do anything  
foolish, like stalking the woman, will you?"

Stalking? That wouldn't have occurred to Fred. He only wanted to know who  
she was, so he could fill in the details in his mental image of her and  
give his fevered daydreams more substance.

"I promise," he said.

Tracking down the mystery ass-woman wasn't all that difficult. There  
were only a handful of possible matches and it was easy enough to sift  
through them. It narrowed down to a single possibility.

Marilyn Wickelow was a young lawyer, a corporate attorney in her family's  
firm. She had been admitted to the bar just a year ago. Back when the moon  
rose for Fred, she had still been an undergrad at Highsmith University. An  
uninhibited undergrad. The '59 Merc was still registered in her name.

Marilyn had a rather checkered background. She had a history of getting  
a bit "rowdy" when under the influence of various drugs. Recreational  
drugs. Illegal drugs. She had been cited for creating a public nuisance  
several times and once for possession of an illicit substance. She had  
even allegedly posed for pornographic photos and there were other, even  
darker allegations. There had been no convictions, though, and that  
explained why she could practice law. Of course, her family background  
helped, too. It seems that her father was the third richest man in the  
country. A multi-multi-billionaire.

Fred couldn't believe it. He had been mooned by an heiress, no less.  
A debutante. A woman far above his social class. And still he couldn't  
keep her ass out of his thoughts. He was a high school junior with a  
big problem.

Fred's classmates were busily pairing off with their opposite-sex  
counterparts and doing all the wonderful things that boys and girls of  
that age do with each other. Dating, dancing, making out, and . . . Fred  
wanted no part of it. Teenage girls held absolutely no charms for him.  
They were so _young_ , so silly, so inexperienced. And their skinny  
little asses couldn't possibly compare with . . . Marilyn's.

Money. Maybe money was the answer. It was the only way to be taken  
seriously in the adult world. Money made so many things possible. Changing  
other people's perceptions of you. Traveling in higher social circles.  
Infiltrating the legal department of a mega-corporation . . .

Fred already had a part-time job after school. It earned him the noble  
sum of a buck and a quarter an hour. That wasn't bad by contemporary  
standards in this Year of Our Lord 1964, but it wouldn't bring him much  
closer to his goal.

His goal. Exactly what _was_ his goal? He'd promised Mr. Herzog he  
wouldn't stalk Marilyn, and he had no intention of doing anything of the  
sort. He just wanted her to like him. No, more than just _like_  
him. He wanted her to _want_ him, to desire him, to lust after  
him, to totally lose her head, to be so hot for his bod that she'd jump  
out of her panties to have at him. He wanted her, all of her, her body  
and her mind . . . and her soul, too.

 

This was crazy. He had absolutely no chance of succeeding. But here he  
was in the lobby of the Wickelow Building, walking toward the reception  
desk. He hadn't the slightest idea of how he was going to pull it off.

"State your business, please." The man in a company uniform was staring  
at him with cold indifference. This was the first hurdle.

"I need to see Marilyn Wickelow on a critically important matter. She's  
in the Legal Affairs division."

"You have an appointment of course," the guard said.

"No, but . . ."

"I'm sorry, sir, but company policy forbids -- "

"Well, then give her this." Fred thrust a sealed manila envelope through  
the opening in the grille. PERSONAL AND URGENT the label on the envelope  
read.

This was his final hope. She _had_ to open the envelope  
and see . . . and see the picture inside. It was a picture of him,  
a black-and-white photo. A rear view of him bent over, bent over and  
naked, with his naked ass facing the camera lens. Using a Polaroid camera  
with a self-timer, Fred had figured out how to shoot the moon, literally,  
and if fate cooperated, how to get the moonshot into Marilyn's hands.

 

No mail today, either. Fifteen hard-earned dollars it had cost Fred to  
rent the postal box. Well, he couldn't have put his home address on the  
note he'd clipped to the photo, the photo of his bare behind. A PO box  
gave him a measure of anonymity. Not that it would help much if Marilyn  
brought the police into it. Or if she sicced the company watchdogs on him.  
And, of course, if she didn't respond, it was all for nothing.

The note. He had agonized over the note for days.
    
    
       "You exposed yourself to me four years ago. I was a young boy
        at the time, and the sight of your naked bottom in the car window
        shattered me. It destroyed my youth. Now I'm incapable of normal
        relationships with the opposite sex. You OWE me, and it's payback
        time."
    

Sure, it was emotional blackmail. But if it worked, and it _had_  
to work, he could deal with the consequences later.

A week later the letter came. Inside was a single item -- a ticket to  
the opera. Fred hated opera, but he didn't think he should miss this  
particular performance.

 

The fat lady was singing. She had a magnificent voice, but Fred couldn't  
understand a word. "That closes the second act of Salambbo," Marilyn  
whispered to him. She ought to know, considering that she was rich and  
cultured. And something of a fat lady herself.

Afterward, sitting and chatting at the table in the restaurant, Marilyn  
laughed over what she called youthful indiscretions. Yes, she might have  
done some things she'd later have cause to regret, but the power of money  
was amazing, wasn't it? Now she got to the point and offered Fred five  
thousand in cash for any pain and inconvenience that a certain episode  
might have caused him. Of course, he'd have to sign a few papers, but . . .

"Marilyn. That's really not what all this is about. I'm not here to  
shake you down, and money won't heal my wounds. What I want from you is,  
I guess . . . _you_. The sight of your bare flesh, well, I think  
it made me . . . fall in love with you."

"I was afraid it might be something like that, kiddo." She pulled a hand  
through her long flaxen hair, then looked across at him and smiled.  
"You're a right handsome guy, all right, but . . . no. It would never  
work. Aside from the age difference -- and you _are_ legally  
still a minor -- I seem to be already spoken for. And, I'm afraid my  
boyfriend might be a wee bit jealous. Hmm. Let me think on it."

Later in the evening they were sitting in a parked car outside Fred's  
home.

"I'll be in touch," she said. "Meanwhile," she paused, "here's something  
to remember me by." She pulled his hand around behind her and down,  
then under her skirt. The feel of her smooth butt cheek lingered on his  
fingers as he stumbled from the car.

 

In fact, she didn't get back to Fred. He found out why a few months later.  
It was on the Six O'Clock News. Marilyn, it turned out, was a very  
interesting and a very dangerous person. She and a companion had . . .
    
    
     
         BUTCHERED THEIR WAY ACROSS SIX STATES!!!
    
         HIGH SOCIETY THRILL KILLERS!
    
         WEALTHY FEMALE LAWYER'S MURDER SPREE!
    
        "SHE MADE ME DO IT," BOYFRIEND CLAIMS!
    

Getting a seat at the trial was impossible. Not that it much mattered,  
since the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Marilyn's boyfriend testified  
against her and got off with a life sentence. She wasn't nearly as lucky.

 

Fred was older and wiser, not to mention quite a bit more cynical.  
He was a junior at the state college, majoring in criminal justice  
administration, and was on his third girlfriend in as many months. Alice  
was even-tempered, affectionate, and most important of all, had a nice ass.

It had been a rough couple of years before Fred had managed to banish  
Marilyn (and her _ass_ ) out of his mind. Things had finally fallen  
into place and he pretty much had the rest of his life mapped out. Finish  
school, get married, and settle into a law enforcement career, though  
not necessarily in that order. Disruptions in his neat, well-planned  
life were the last thing he needed.

The envelope in his mailbox had a State Penitentiary return address.  
"You have been approved as a correspondent for inmate M. Wickelow,"  
it read. _What?_ Marilyn wanted to him to write to her? To the  
State Penitentiary?

"No friggin' way I'm getting involved with that wacky broad again,"  
Fred muttered.

"Oh, go on," Alice chuckled. "She's part of the dead past, and by now you  
must have gotten over her. Besides, you have _my_ ass to obsess  
about now, not to mention snuggle up to when we spend the night together."

"Well, I suppose I could use her as the topic for a research paper in  
the Capital Punishment seminar. No problem about making a top grade with  
something like that."
    
    
        Dear Marilyn,
    
        I really don't know where to start. It's been years since, well,
        since that night at the opera, and I've mostly gotten over my juvenile
        fixation on you-know-what. Lately I've been studying hard and trying
        to live a something like a normal life.
    
        Yes, I'd be willing to write and offer what emotional support I can.
        If you'd like to talk about the things you've done, with a view
        toward getting them off your chest or whatever, well, I suppose I
        could make myself available.
    
    
        Fred
    

Months passed without a reply from Marilyn. Fred didn't even much think  
about it, since he had been getting his fill of Alice's ass, and after  
that went sour, Janetta's. Finally, he did get a letter, but it wasn't  
quite what he was expecting.
    
    
        Gardner, Bates, Boysen, and Cox Associates
        Attorneys at Law
    
        Mr. Frederick Holstein:
    
        Permission has been obtained for your visitation to our client,
        Miss Marilyn Wickelow at the following date and time . . .
    

Visitation? He was supposed to _visit_ her? In person?  
_On Death Row?_ What in the hell had he gotten himself into?

 

"This way, sir."

The uniformed female guard ushered Fred down the corridor of locked  
cell doors. There were a few catcalls, but most of the inmates were  
surprisingly well-behaved.

"Marilyn?"

"Fred! I'm so pleased you could make it. Welcome to my humble abode."

Humble indeed. Her "abode" consisted of a 10-foot square cell containing  
a cot, a small stainless steel wash basin, and a lidless toilet.

"Let's have a little privacy -- what do you say, kiddo?" Marilyn nodded  
at the prison matron, who turned abruptly and went out the cell door,  
locking it behind her.

"Alone at last." Marilyn smiled.

"Tell me if you would, old girl, what's going on here. Let's start at  
the beginning, why don't we. What exactly do you expect of me? Why did  
your lawyers contact me? Why did they offer me fifty thousand dollars  
dollars if I'd agree to visit you? And why did they hint at another,  
larger payment, for 'unspecified services'?"

"Fifty thou is small change, little man. Money is something I've never  
bothered keeping track of. Now, _time_ is another matter. Time is  
precious to me. I measure it in days and weeks, and, as a certain date  
draws near, I'll probably start counting the hours. And, that's where  
you come in, darling."

" _Darling_ , is it now? Well, I think I'm getting a glimmer of  
what this is all about. They don't execute _pregnant_ women,  
do they, Marilyn?"

"Now, now, Freddie boy, let's just say I'm hot for your bod, and leave  
it at that. Besides, don't you _want_ to fuck me?"

"But the guards -- "

"Have been taken care of. Half million in cash can be mighty tempting  
to a civil servant making in the neighborhood of thirty thousand a year.  
Don't worry, we're guaranteed an hour of total privacy."

There were two blue woolen institutional-issue blankets on the cot. One  
of these Marilyn draped over the bars of the cell, blocking the view  
from the corridor. The other she spread on the floor.

"They say the knee-chest position is best for getting with child,"  
Marilyn whispered. "And it's just the right time of month, too."

She was on her hands and knees, head down on a pillow, and her bare ass  
thrust out toward Fred. This was the very ass that had haunted him for  
years, and just below it her pussy was gaping open for the taking.  
He took it.

"Thank you, dear. That was nice. And, you're still hard, I see. It's  
wonderful to be young and horny. Would you like to put it back in?"

"Yes, but -- "

"Wait." She stood up and got a plastic squeeze bottle from a shelf over  
the sink.

"Hand cream. How about we try something a little different now, Freddie  
boy? Lube yourself up with this and stick it up my ass this time."

He pressed the head of his aching cock against the puckered entrance  
between her cheeks. The sphincter dimpled inwards, then yielded. He slid  
into her darkness, into the deepest of her mysteries, and she was tight  
inside, and she cried out his name, and then something else. It sounded  
like, "Don't hurt me, Daddy."

"The first time was for business, and _that_ was for  
pleasure." Marilyn tousled his hair as they sat side by side on the cot.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Do what? Fuck you just now? Moon you all those many years ago? Or kill  
the people?"

"All of the above."

"Revenge," she said. "I'm getting back at the world."

\---

Fred must have been firing blanks because Marilyn didn't get pregnant.  
All the same, an appeal of her sentence managed to postpone the execution  
into the next year. Strangely enough, the news only rated a couple  
of paragraphs on page 8 of the paper and didn't even get into the Six  
O'Clock News. The public had lost interest in the case.

Fred tried to arrange another visit, but he hit a stone wall. The prison  
officials had revoked his visitation rights and her lawyers didn't return  
his phone calls. Apparently Marilyn didn't want to see him again. She had  
used him, then discarded him.

The execution took place without fanfare in the early hours of a drizzly  
Thursday morning. They still used hanging in that part of the country,  
and the noose snapped Marilyn's slim white neck cleanly as her beautifully  
sculpted body dropped through the trap door.

Two months later the letter came. In the outer envelope was a statement  
from the lawyers.
    
    
         In settlement of the estate of M. Wickelow and in accordance with
         her wishes as noted in her Last Will and Testament, the enclosed
         is transferred to your possession.
    

Inside the smaller sealed envelope was a key. It was for a safe deposit  
box in a bank branch in a nearby town.

The bank officer led Fred down to the vault as soon as he had identified  
himself. Apparently this, too, had been arranged.

The safe deposit box contained a typed letter, a sheaf of handwritten  
papers in a cheap binder, a number of stacks of $100 bills in bank  
wrappers, and a loose bundle of what looked like stock certificates.
    
    
         Freddie,
    
         If you're reading this, then I'm dead and buried. You were the
         only one I could trust -- in fact, the only one for whom I ever
         developed anything like affection. If I had been capable of love,
         I think I might have loved you. Keeping that in mind, I have one
         final task for you.
    
         Avenge me! I'm depending on you to even up accounts with the man
         who shattered my life, who ruined my childhood, who made a killer
         out of me. I'm talking about my father, of course.
    
         Harlan Wickelow is the man who took my virginity. He robbed me
         of my innocence on one bloody-red evening shortly after my eighth
         birthday. And he continued quenching his slimy lust in me for
         years afterwards, until I had my first period. Then he turned his
         attentions to my younger sister.
    
         Destroy him! Kill my father. Let him join me in Hell so his soul
         can be torn asunder by the demons that have tormented me for all
         these years.
    
         There is $100,000 in cash in this box. That will cover your
         immediate expenses. The negotiable securities are bearer bonds,
         which means you can take them to the issuing bank and cash them in
         without showing ID. They have a face value of $10,000,000, surely
         enough for you to live on comfortably for the rest of your life.
    
         No, I don't expect you to get your hands dirty with his filthy
         blood. Hire someone. Dave Boysen, one of my attorneys, will put
         you in touch with some people who are in that line of work. The
         deed will never be traced back to you.
    
         Do this for me. Destroy the man who destroyed me. Kill him!
    
         Reaching out to you from beyond the grave,
    
    
         Marilyn
    

Harlan Wickelow slowly rose to his feet. His face could have been carved  
out of stone.

"And, what should I make of this, young man? If it's blackmail you have  
in mind, you're wasting your time."

"Fred Holstein's the name, and it's a name that you'll remember the rest  
of your life. I have no use for either your money or your worldly goods.  
There's only one thing I want and that's to honor your daughter's final  
wish. She wanted me to have you killed, but a piece of shit like you  
isn't worth risking jail time for. I'll content myself with blackening  
your reputation and good name.

"I've sent copies of her testament, the one you've just read, to the  
wire services and to major newspapers all over the country. By this  
time tomorrow your name will be a household word, a curse word for a  
misbegotten father who commits incest on his own daughter, a father who  
abuses the trust of a child, a father who destroys his own family. You  
were directly responsible for her death and indirectly for the deaths  
of her victims, and now the bill comes due."

Fred paused, then continued. "Marilyn left me over ten million dollars.  
I've donated every penny of it to a foundation that helps incest and  
rape victims and I'm dedicating my life to hunting down and prosecuting  
the perpetrators of those crimes."

"She was my darling little girl!" Wickelow wailed. He had collapsed  
back into the chair, his face hidden behind clenched fists. "I loved her!"

"So did I," Fred whispered. He walked out the door and didn't look back.


End file.
